


Book of the Songbird

by WhenTheSkyDances



Series: Destiny & Dragons [1]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Here there be dragons, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 14:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17830406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenTheSkyDances/pseuds/WhenTheSkyDances
Summary: Who once was a Songbird, who sang a tune of Yore.Who once was a Songbird, bested and burned by Flames.Who once was a Songbird, risen in new Light to sing once More.Nightingale is newly risen, guided by the regal form of her dragon, Lullaby, on a journey to discover their place in a world ravaged by Darkness. She knows little of who she was, and even less of she is now, but she is determined to answer every question that hums in her mind. Nightingale's story is one of despair and silence, of joy and music, of love and hate, and one that reveals the secret of ages long past before the arrival of the Traveler and it's miracles.





	Book of the Songbird

**Author's Note:**

> Dearest Readers, 
> 
> This is my take on a "Destiny and Dragons" themed collection of stories for a few of my Guardians, and the Guardians of a few close friends. It is set in a medieval time period, so no futuristic space travel and weaponry, but no worries, the Warlocks still have magic. Also, Ghosts are now Dragons. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and as always,
> 
> Love,  
> WhenTheSkyDances

“Do not go gentle into that Good Night” - Dylan Thomas, Copyright 1953

 

There is music in the silence. There is music in the lonesome, misty pines that stretch for miles over the cold earth. Tall, thin trees covered in pine needles of a deep green, with a scent so sharp and heavy it stings more than the chill of the air. Mist sits upon the ground, lingering over the damp, mossy forest floor. This music is soft, sorrowful. It echoes through trees, over hill and dale, along with the whispers and mumbling of the creeks and rivers. It is silence turned to song. In this forest, among the hum of the trees, the whistling of the wind, lies a new song. A song unheard for a century.

 

In that thick copse of misty pine, miles from the nearest collection of civilized life, wandered a creature of such poise and grace it radiated a serenity over the barren wood. Its body was magnificent, covered in radiant feathers of blues and greens, purples and gold. Its steps were slow, placed only on earth that was softest and would make no noise under foot. It was listening, great golden eyes wide as it cocked its angular head at angles, perceiving all in its vicinity. The forest seemed to part where it wished to walk, the mist slipping away from its scaled feet.

 

A strong gust of wind danced over the creature’s body; it fluttered its wide wings in response, dipping its head to the earth. Its pale grey beak graced the soil, nostrils flaring at its base. It took in the smells of the forest, but it could detect something else as well. This was no beast looking for prey, but a great search that had been years in the making. Taking a deep breath, it blinked its eyes and made a sound so soft, yet so overwhelmingly loud, the forest trembled. It had arrived where it wished to be.

 

With another deep breath, it could smell blood that was centuries old. It could smell ashes, burnt wood, and scorched stone. It could smell death and rot and miseries long past absorbed into the earth like an airy stain. Around the great beast, the forest had overtaken the small village that once stood here, only a hundred years ago. It was burned down to the earth, homes and lives with it. There was a particular life that was one taken far too early.

 

The regal creature opened its beak, revealing rows of needle-like teeth. With a sharp inhale, it began to tear at the earth with vigor, ripping apart roots and grass, disturbing the ruins before it. Dirt and splinters of wood gave way to its mighty claws, hurled behind it like a spray of earth. The digging revealed a subterranean chamber a few feet below the surface, protected by rotten slats of wood. With a sharp crack, it pressed down heavily onto the wood to shatter it. It fell to the stony floor below with empty echoes. The beast hummed once more, rattling the layers of fine dust that coated the chamber. It lifted its head and looked down at its feet, shaking the dirt from its pristine form.

 

Peering to the dark, there lie shadows. Lying in the shadow of the chamber was the corpse of a woman, bones exposed through tightened, dry skin and dark, singed clothing; by her side lay the corpses of two smaller humans, in similar condition. The beast could feel the sadness and pain and desperation that permeated the air around the corpses. The smell of smoke and rot hung over their bodies.

 

With one long, gentle movement, the beast reached down into the hole and plucked up the body of the woman. Her bones rattled in its claws, held together by skin like paper and torn clothing, and placed her back upon the soil. With the pale light of the sun beaming upon her, the cool mists caressing dried skin, the beast hummed and sat upon it haunches, spreading its great feathered wings to encircle the corpse before it. It raised its head, eyes narrowed, and breathed deep. In a voice that sounded like a like a thousand voices whispering all at once, it spoke.

 

“ _Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light._ ” The whispers rattled the wood, soft and yet trembling, as if a thunderstorm was brewing only a few miles away. The beast seemed to glow, its feathers brighter, and its eyes shining as it continued. “ _Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they, Do not go gentle into that good night_.”

 

Light seemed to glow and seep from the earth, tendrils reaching from beast to corpse in an odd dance of silence and song, consumed by whispers of words long-ago written. Wind blew in from nowhere, stirring the grayed hair of the corpse. The hum of the wind and the light rose into a spiral of sound, tumultuous and beautiful, paired with the voice of the beast.

 

“ _Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright, Their frail deeds might have danced in green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light_.” Consumed now in light and sound, the corpse was glowing in pale white light, misty and cold. The beast leaned over the dead woman, clawed feet coming to hover over her body while its wingtips crazed the ground. It had waited so long for this, for this power, for this gift. “ _Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night_.”

 

The corpse seemed no longer a corpse, her skin growing full and flush, her hair bright auburn, her clothing refreshed once more into a deep blue dress that shimmered with intricate golden lace. Her body radiated light, beamed with it, and her heart beat along with tune of the of the beast’s thrumming voices. A great burst of light flashed through the forest like an explosion, dimming as it retreated into the woman upon the ground.

 

“ _Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight, Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light_.” The voices, like many but of one, continued to grow louder and louder, but had not lost any of its softness. It was as if a chorus of voices had risen in the most empty of places, heard only by the trees and the dead things below the dirt, and the new life that was rising by the beast’s feet. With a breath like one who had been submerged below water for a moment too long, the woman sat up-right and screamed as the pain in her body, of her consciousness, was made new once more. The chorus of voices beat upon her ears and she looked up at the beast with confusion and awe and found herself singing along with it, willed by a power beyond herself.

 

“And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.” She was singing, her mind full of emptiness and everything all at once. There was a storm inside her head, a whirlwind of nothing. She rose up onto her unsteady feet, her hazel eyes wet with tears as she tried to speak, but found herself only capable of finishing the song that trembled on her lips. “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

 

As the last word fell from her shaking lips, tears staining her cheeks, hazel eyes sore and red, she collapsed onto her knees at the feet of the beast. Her dress shimmered around her in bunches. She looked up, sobbing, and felt a sudden comfort as she felt the creature dip its feather-crowned head by her body with a hum. Its head was larger than she, and it allowed her to lean against it. She sighed, her body shaking and cold, as the beast hummed once more and shook her form. She realized now there was only silence, where once there had been a roaring chorus of voices to greet her. The beast’s body was soft and warm, and its scales and feathers radiated warmth through her body. The woman buried her face into the beast’s, her hands laced with the teal feathers under it eyes, and she sobbed.

 

“My lullaby,” The woman choked on the hoarse words, recalling all she knew of the words she had sung at the top of her lungs, making her throat burn. “ _My lullaby._ ” The woman met the creature’s golden eyes and felt indescribable gratitude, but for what she was unsure.

 

“Your lullaby,” The voice hummed in a chorus of sound, like a hundred people had just spoken at once. It pulled its head away and then came to rest upon its scaled belly, baring its back to the woman. There was a row of small black spikes, but an empty space where it shoulders were. “So it is that I shall be.”

 

Unconsciously understanding the will of the mighty creature before her, the woman walked past the maned neck of the beast, her hand running through its silky feathers, and she clambered upon it back. The spikes started just behind her. The feathers upon it back and shoulders were royal blue and black, with a shimmer of green. She found herself sitting naturally upon the juncture of its wings and neck, a sensation that felt purely right. She belonged upon the back of this creature… _her lullaby._

 

“You are my Lullaby,” She stated plainly, tongue quiet with disuse, as if she was afraid her voice would turn back to empty noise and dust. The woman dug her hands tightly into the feathers of the beast’s neck, relishing in the sensation of reality.

 

“That is I,” It hummed. _He_ hummed, the woman noticed. The beast’s voice was distinctly male, despite the echoes that accompanied it. “You are my _Joltur-Rah_. My Risen. My Chosen.”

 

“Chosen?”

 

“Yes. My Chosen of Light,” He explained slowly, rising to his feet and shaking loose the dirt and leaves that had clung to his body while resting. “And I am your _Herla-Rah_ , your dragon.”

 

“Who am I?” The woman asked the dragon after a moment. “If you are Lullaby, who am I?”

 

The dragon, Lullaby, began to walk through the forest as gracefully and as regally as he had before. They left the ruins of what had once been his Chosen’s home. The mists rolled around his limbs, curling up over his feathered-fan tail. Angling his head, the dragon looked over his shoulder at the woman resting upon his back, and blinked his golden eyes.

 

“You can be anything at all that you such desire,” Lullaby spoke softly, his voice still an echoic sound that could only be described as a chorus. “You can be the River. You can be the Winds. You can be anything that you wish.”

 

At that moment, the woman’s attention was stolen by the song of a lonely bird, fluttering through the trees in search of a flock far beyond the barren pines. Little and brown, it bounced from limb to limb, singing a song to the empty air. Lullaby stopped, watching patiently as his Chosen stared into the forest.

 

“What is that little bird that sings, Lullaby?” The woman asked, as the dragon angled his head to view the bird himself.

 

“That is a nightingale, little _Joltur-Rah_ ,”  He answered softly, his voice startling the bird into a panicked flight. “Tis a songbird.”

 

“Then it as I shall be,” She hummed to herself. The woman’s hazel eyes met her dragon’s.

 

“ _I am Nightingale_.”

 

“Nightingale.” Lullaby repeated this to himself, letting a little shiver pass through his ruff of shining teal feathers. “It suits you. Now I shall call you my little bird, along with my little _Joltur-Rah_.”

 

“How so does it suit me?” Nightingale asked, her hands still buried in the dragon’s ruff, holding tightly to him as they resumed walking through the barren wood. She did not know where they were going. She didn’t know anything, now that she thought about it.

 

“You are little, like the bird. You sing, like the bird.”

 

Nightingale took this answer quickly, not sure whether the dragon meant it. What if he was holding back answers? _Why was she here?_ Why did she not know a _single thing_ about herself, or this dragon, or the very world she existed upon?

 

“What do you know of me? How is it that you know all, yet I know nothing?”

 

“I have been waiting for your questions,” Lullaby chuckled. Nightingale did not laugh. The dragon shook his head and blinked.  

 

“I know some,” Lullaby responded slowly, his voice an echoic whisper. “Though I do not know all. I know enough to desire you as my Chosen.”

 

“And what is that?” Nightingale questioned.

 

“I cannot tell you.” Lullaby answered shortly. He knew this would not satisfy her, but he also knew that he could not tell her. If he told her why, she would no longer be new to the world, and her idea of herself would be a shadow of her past life.

 

“What can you tell me, if you cannot tell me who I was?” Nightingale countered. She would seek these answers, no matter what.

 

“Who you _were_ is of little concern, Nightingale,” Lullaby explained patiently. “It is who you are _now_ that matters. You are Chosen; you are new, freed of any ties to whom you once were.”

 

“Why do you call me that?”

 

“It is an aspect of what you are.”  

 

“Tell me wholly, what do you know?” Nightingale was becoming more and more frustrated with the limited information she was being given. She speculated that if this dragon were to have such a sincere bond with her, he would be more inclined to share what he knew.

 

“It is long; there is much that you will not understand,” Lullaby started slowly. He could feel her agitation as her hands tightened around his feathers. He would be honest with his Chosen, even if he knew it would only result in more questions.

 

“Tell me.” Nightingale’s voice was not pleading, nor was it commanding. It was a voice of desire, the hunger of an empty mind.

 

“In due time,” Lullaby explained. “Though I shall tell you this, to ease your curiosity.”

 

And with this he began a tale of the world, speaking of something past, known as the Golden Age of humankind; Nightingale’s people. It was heralded by a great, heavenly body that gifted the world with many new pleasures and knowledge, and was known as the _Traveler_. This elegant white orb hovered above the earth like a fallen god, bestowing boons as it drifted. For years, humankind excelled and explored, touching corners of the earth yet unseen.

 

“Why did it come to us?” Nightingale wondered. She was observing her surroundings, the dim light and the grey mist, the dark trees and deep green leaves. Her hazel eyes looked up, as if she might catch a glimpse of the Traveler sitting overhead.

 

“None know with any degree of certainty. It is highly debated, even among us _Herla_.” Lullaby responded, feeling deep in his chest that he had chosen well. He valued knowledge above all, and Nightingale was furiously in pursuit of it.

 

Resuming his story, Lullaby explained the looming, predatory nature of the _Darkness,_ the enemy of the Traveler’s Light. He spoke solemnly of the fall of man, the Collapse, and the great shifting of the world to its current shape. When the pair reached a cliffside where a small creek fell over into a misty cloud, Lullaby stopped, wind pulling at his feathers as it fell to the sky. His eyes scanned the treetops below the cliff, melting gray and green together. The aching silence permeated the damp air.

 

“You perished during the Collapse,” Lullaby explained to her, tilting his head back to watch her. The woman stared at him, and he felt her hands tighten on the quills of his feathers. Her eyes fell to her hands.

 

“And now I am alive,” Her voice was quiet, contemplating an idea foreign to her mind. “Because of you.”

 

Lullaby shook his head, a chuckle in his throat. His fan-like tail swept over the grasses with a soft swishing sound.

 

“No, Nightingale. You are alive because of _Le-Hrairah_ , the Traveler. Through its Light I exist, and I was given the purpose of finding you.”

 

“Why? What need does this Traveler have of me?”  Nightingale’s grip loosened on his quills, and she began to grow into her voice. Her curiosity boiled. The woman knew nothing of her past and only a limited portion this new world.

 

“ _Le-Hrairah_ created us, the _Herla_ , the dragons, to find satisfactory souls to resurrect as our Chosen. _You_.” Lullaby explained to her, his golden eyes reflecting the pale light of the sun through the mists. His voice trembled with awe, as if even speaking of the Traveler was a reverent task. His talons tightened on the cliff edge. “By doing so, you are imbued with the power of the Light, and can fight to defend what remains of your people.”

 

“What will I be fighting?” Nightingale asked, her voice now like iron. If ever it shook with uncertainty or fear, Lullaby would not have heard it.

 

“There are many enemies of your people,” Lullaby answered with pride, admiring his Chosen. She was still fresh to the world, and yet she was prepared to fight for it. “They fight for the Darkness.”

 

“And I fight for my people, for the Light?” Nightingale presumed. The dragon nodded his head. She observed him, watched as his eyes stared into the nothingness of the gray sky and misty treetops before them. She could feel the tight muscles under her body as his wings shifted slightly. “What if I am hurt, or killed? Will you find another?”

 

“There is no other like you, Nightingale. You are _my_ Chosen. I am _your_ dragon,” Lullaby spoke with a solid loyalty. “We are of one soul, one power. I am the channel through which your power flows.”

 

“But if I am hurt? Killed? What will you do?” Nightingale was worried. She did not know how to fight, or how to survive in a world filled to the brim with those who would harm her.

 

“If you are hurt, I will heal you. If you die, I will revive you. That is my promise to you.” Lullaby stretched his wings out, and Nightingale slipped forward, resting on the base of his neck. Her dress was darker than the feathers around her, and her bare feet hung on either side of of the dragon’s neck. “I have done it once, I shall do it again.”

 

“Will I forget?” Nightingale’s voice was uncharacteristically timid, but Lullaby could understand her fear at losing everything she knew after having only recently reclaimed it.

 

“No,” He answered pleasantly. “You will remember all, no matter the number of deaths.”

 

“What about you?” Nightingale asked. The dragon had begun to check his feathers for flight, to make sure everything was in place, when he stopped. His wings sank low.

 

“If you die, little one, I can bring you back from that dark place,” Lullaby’s voice was low. “But if I die, I am gone. My death is _permanent_. I return to Le-Hrairah.”

 

Nightingale thought in silence. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Lullaby’s neck, laying her head onto him. The dragon froze in place. He could feel the tightness with which she embraced him, and he closed his eyes. He praised Le-Hrairah for his Chosen, and blinked open his golden eyes. His wings fluttered open and he raised them up, ready for the down stroke.

 

“Nightingale, sit up and hold tight.” The dragon called to her. She did as she was asked, her eyes still red from tears shed only minutes ago. The woman gripped his quills tightly, her legs squeezing the body below her. “Death, for us, is a close friend and he dances to our music. One day the song will end, but for now, we shall sing it gladly. Do not fear it.”

 

“I will not. I shall sing with you, Lullaby.” Nightingale straightened her back and sat tall upon the dragon’s back.

 

“A lovely little bird, indeed,” Lullaby laughed before crouching over the edge of the cliff, the muscles in his hindquarters and wings bunching up in preparation for release. His head ducked low, his crest flattened to streamline his shape. Nightingale was not able to respond as she was lurched forward, gripping her dragon tightly. He dove off of the cliff with great force, his wings spread to catch the misty air. They leveled out, and Nightingale opened her eyes, not having noticed she had shut them.

 

His wing beats were silent. The feathers moved in unison, not rippled by the wind. Lullaby was gliding through the air like a whisper, undetected by eyes peering up, unheard by the ears below. Nightingale loosened her grip, feeling the wind tug at her hair and her clothing like chilly claws. She looked over his wings, which spanned for a great length on either side, and sighed. The air was clear and clean and fresh. She could see the distant fires, lights, and smoke of small villages leagues ahead of them. This was her world, those were her people.

 

Lullaby craned his head slightly to view the wide-eyed woman upon his back.

 

“Welcome to your destiny, little one.”


End file.
